


Bewitched

by HighElvenKing



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (medical tags are for CWs. not kinks dw), AU, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Angry Kissing, Bonding, Chronically ill hubert von vestra, Dark Fantasy, Dark Magic, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Fire Emblem Three Houses - Freeform, Fire emblem rarepair, Hiding Medical Issues, Hunter x monster au, Hurt/Comfort, I'll add more tags as I update, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Trauma, Not Canon Compliant, Original au, POV Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, POV Hubert von Vestra, Rarepair, Slow Burn, Torture, Trans Hubert von Vestra, Trans Male Character, Trauma, Witchhunter x Witch au, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:35:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28955070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighElvenKing/pseuds/HighElvenKing
Summary: (Set in a more traditional medieval/low magic AU) Former prince, Witch Hunter Dimitri is faced with severe doubts concerning his duty as a Witch hunter. The witches are an enigmatic people marked from birth with the ability to cast and control magic. The inquisition and Witch hunter guild has hunted a prominent coven for years, finally on the brink of victory, with only two left. Dimitri feels hollow in the face of it, guilt burning at him. more so in the face of what the Inquisition actually does to their imprisoned heretics. A strange kinship forms between him and this gaunt dark mage, much as he knows he should avoid the lure of black magic and those who use it.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *Witch/mage, I use these gender neutrally. 
> 
> Hi its me again after like (??) a few years. my health took a massive dive, so Idk if I can continue my other fics :(( which makes me sad, but it is what it is. Anyway Im hoping to start writing again. I want so bad to be doing shit consistently.

The raid had been a success. Though the coven leader had evaded capture, her right hand man had not managed to escape. The collaboration between the witch hunters and the inquisition had worked surprisingly well despite the differences between the two groups. The victory had earned a mild celebration. Mead hall filled with the different armours, sigils, capes and motifs. The quiet black leather, masks and scuffed up metal of the witch hunters, compared to the extravagant golden regalia of the inquisitors. 

Dimitri did not feel much of the airs of joy. Sat in the corner, staring at a pint of ale. Despite the leading months and the years of effort. Somehow the victory left an ashen taste in his mouth. Like the hollow ache of self doubt, questioning, and a lack of conviction. For so long he had been convinced this would soothe his aching heart, put the spirits to rest at last. The flames that consumed his family would at last be set to rest. Edelgard was still at large, but something in him felt deeply conflicted.

He could still see those pale lavender eyes, widening with horror and grief stricken fury as her coven members fell, struck down with the hard steel weapons, and the shields of righteous purity. How Hubert, even for all his dark magic, stood his ground, not running but sacrificing himself so that Edelgard could escape. Hubert had been prepared to die, to give his life so that hers would continue. It was noble, it also went against everything he had considered the norm for them. Perhaps that was what bit him, Hubert had not been slain, not given an honourable death. He was captured instead, to say ‘spare’ was a long stretch. It was not done for any merciful reason. 

The inquisition wished to study the witch, and at a later date-dissect him. To show future candidates that the physiology of witches was truly different from humans, to discern weaknesses. Dimitri’s gut twisted at the thought. Suddenly the tasteless burn of the mediocre ale earned far more nausea than any tingle of tipsiness.

He was the declared head of the witch hunters, but they had ultimately little power against the say of the inquisition. Dimitri was not prepared to sacrifice his people with his own doubts and questioning. Slowly he rose, excusing himself from the feasting, thankful that the poor brew had least had addled enough senses for him to creep off with little disturbance. He adjusted the thick fur on his shoulders, straightening it as he went to lurk through the dusty halls, the last flaming torches for the night emanating lazy embers, leaving a dim glow along the ragged stone walls that gradually grew colder and more stale with every step Dimitri wandered down the stairs.

Some errant part of his mind tried to call him back, to remind him of his duties, of his purpose, but it fell deaf against the compulsion to investigate. To see a live witch for longer than just the exposure of battle, to see the survivor of the coven. Thick boots were not quiet on the old crackling stone, echoing into the long dreary passages and prisons that the Inquisition had dug into the earth.

Dimitri paused towards one of the larger doors, taking in a slow breath. Hand traced the ornate technology, unknown to the church he had studied a good few inquisition pieces of technology. The door creaked before winding upon, there was an additional set of tall sharp spikes. He had been told that that they only worked on those with magic, that others could step just step over. His single blue eye surveyed the near pitch black room, only illuminated by the fading light int he hallway. What first caught his eye looked like a dead rat, emaciated and half rotted, its chest and fur sunken into the cold damp stone. In the far end of the room, did Dimitri’s eyes spy the captured witch.

He was an unsettlingly long fellow. Gaunt, thin body seemed to stretch on, blood stained- tattered boots, curved over in the uncomfortable position. It was difficult to peruse much of his features, with both the grim light and many, many chains and other restrictive devices placed on the man. His hands were bound together at the wrist, legs bound at the ankle, each by cold steel manacles. Evidently the witch had been writhing by evidence of the red marks and bleeding chafe marks around his wrist. His robes had been changed by the looks of it, left with a simplistic dress shirt, bloodied trousers, with his boots kept as they were. The blood on his clothes was newer than what was elsewhere on his body, and the implication troubled him. Dimitri’s features stiffened at the primitive treatment, thrusting more guilt in his head. A collar sat on his neck, primed with spikes on the circumference as to prevent movement, with additional chains tightly strained to the walls to hold his hands, head and legs restrictively in place. Most cruel was the machinations around his mouth, not unlike what one might use for a feral dog, a cage, fit further with a device that kept the witch from speaking. 

Dimitri did wonder if there was any actual reason for using something might one keep for cannibals at most. If he were in the mage’s position he might have bit someone too. 

The former prince pried one of the failing torches from outside, keeping the door open with a balanced boot before he returned, gradually reviving the flame as he set it upon a sconce. He pried a cheap candle from his pocket, usually the tallow was used for cleaning rituals- especially in a hurry, but he set it down, lighting the wick with the licking flames of the torch, setting it down to melt near enough to the witch to illuminate him, but not enough to be doused or toyed with.

A slight shock travelled down his spine as the witch suddenly stared directly at him, pale lime gaze framed by heavy shadows under the eye, sharply cut features, a pointed nose, and thin brows. Limp black hair hung over his one eye, tousled and still retaining flecks of blood, dried and cracking now. There was an air cold stoicism, that despite all the chains and manacles, this witch was ready to spit in the face of the archbishop herself.

Something caught him off guard however, and instead of a proud enemy in his final stand. Dimitri began to see more than the defensive stance and the honourable refusal to surrender. In the silence save for the flicker of candles and weak shafts of wind through the halls, a stiff wheezing sound came at every shaky intake of breath from the mage’s arched chest. Something traitorous burned in Dimitri, and he instinctively set down, checking the man for wounds.

If looks could kill, Hubert looked like he was ready to personally throttle Dimitri out of a window and then again ten times over. Witch hunter could feel him straining in his bindings, with the quickening breath of the witch, the wheezing intensified, he could feel faintest hissing sounds from him, barely-but still insistently coming through the muzzle. The former prince gave an apologetic grimace, trying his best to maneuver the long- and incredibly stubborn man. Enough for at least the most basic medical assessment.

“Hey hey! I’m trying to help. I’m not going to hurt you—I” 

Spatter of white stars clouded his vision, and the hunter reactively rubbed at the spot, instinctively gathering himself into a battle ready position before calming. Bound like a dog, and he still fought. Dimitri offered a half grin at the determination, but for all the chains, those boney shoulders still hit like an irate horse. He slowly approached the witch again, though brow furrowed in concern at the slower reaction, and the poorly hidden grimace, heavy breathing not ceasing despite the broader amount of personal space.

Crimson droplets had formed around the neck, and at this angle he could see they had been opened earlier in the past few hours.

“..What did they do to you..” Dimitri voiced aloud, mostly to himself but he could see something in the black haired giraffe shift in expression. As if he were either confused or indignant.

“….Look, you hate me, thats ok, but I don’t want this.. Any of this for you.” Dimitri spoke slowly, movement patient and steady. He could tell Hubert wanted to spit vitriol at him, he could not really blame him. Maybe later he would give him a free pass to yell at him. 

“..I’m going to clean your wounds and get you some sustenance, please don’t make this difficult, you hurt yourself more and you have to deal with me more.” He tried to reason, he was never the most smooth. In fairer days he had been remarked as being kind but seldom filled with either cunning or suave guile.

Still, at least to some degree, the witch seemed to acquiesce, giving a piercing glower before those broad thin shoulders slouched enough for Dimitri to do some rudimentary investigation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert time, more drama incoming the next chapter! For now, some basic med stuff and Dimitri discovering that Hubert is a walking Medical hazard.

In his wider sense of strategy, Hubert knew he should not accept medical attention from their sworn enemy. But he was also forced to acknowledge that his condition could easily be described as withering, and he unfortunately had little specialty in the nature of healing magic, along with the inconvenient reality of being currently severed from his powers. He kept his gaze locked on the former prince. Noble Dimitri, once upon a time. He’d seen better days, but then Hubert was in no place to judge, shadows and erratic glances over their shoulders stalked them both. 

As much as he could in the restrictive devices, the witch rolled his neck, earning a particularly loud crack for each twist, which seemed to surprise the hunter enough for him to stare for a good few moments, probably wondering if Hubert had by choice snapped his own neck. No, he had not. Not yet anyway. If it were not for the restrictive fastenings around his mouth he might have given a snort of amusement. He took a sharp intake of aching breath. Sharp stabbing pains in his lungs along with a dizziness that rattled in his skull like one of Caspar’s poorly aimed sling shot pebbles.

That-along with what was beginning to be a migraine, what joy.

Teeth grit as much as he could over the confounded muzzle that they had fitted around his mouth, and he took a sharp intake of breath through his nose. Careful eyes beamed on the Boar prince. A former title so he had heard. They knew each other’s names. Intel gathered up over time. Coupled with the matter, once upon a time, the witches were not known by their magical powers.

Edelgard had been a princess.

Hubert yearned to restore that. She had known Dimitri in her youth, she had mentioned to him. Likely, as she had mentioned him to the one eyed man. Apparently the hunter had snapped, gone a type of mad that went along well with bloodthirst. Edelgard still had sentiments concerning the former prince, but Hubert could only see the mad eyes, and the paranoia, and the vicious sweeps of his pole axe. A far cry to the man currently attempting to convince him he meant to heal.

But Hubert, in some dry and perhaps dark sense, knew how quickly the mind could spin with the appropriate stimuli. He personally had seen to more than a few inquisitor’s brutal deaths. Smoked, flayed and then by the ways of careful flensing and black magic. The bestial rage that blurred the mind. Hubert however, was far more strategic, critical, every slice was done with purpose.

Low grunt left his chest as Dimitri manhandled him in his attempts to manoeuvre him. Hubert’s cold eyes were set in an intense furrow of the severest scrutiny, quietly hoping that by willing it, the other would suddenly be set alight in a flash of consuming fire.

There was a stiff stale silence in the moment, and Hubert felt the awful sensation worsen when the other began to toy with his shirt. Not for any perverse reason, but Hubert found his face hot with humiliation as the other checked. Face was formed in a grimace, forming into a thin wince when his ribs were pressed against.

“…You’re very thin.” 

Hubert’s expression somehow managed to sour even further, and it took a great deal of self control to not attempt to give the blonde a concussion. 

“Sorry… I- I’ll make sure that you have access to food and drink.” Dimitri quickly amended, probably realizing the blunder with the sourness increasing in the air. 

Hubert lolled his head back, too tired and dizzy to really fight much more effort, he gave in to just allowing the man to look, though judging by the noises it seemed his body was in less than top condition. Unsurprising really, but to Hubert’s standards this was merely signalling ‘somewhat worse than usual’.

Dimitri disappeared from the room a moment, returning with a rudimentary medical case and some food and water. Frankly the thought of anything but black coffee or a strong drink made Hubert’s stomach twist. The freezing sensation of something on his neck made him hiss against the muzzle, grimacing further when it began to burn. The witch hunter was applying some salve, likely mixed with medical alcohol, wiping it along his recently bleeding neck, before he began to paw at the other parts. Irritation crossed his features at the clumsiness of the motion, but he supposed it was somewhat better than dying pathetically of sepsis.

It was then he felt the muzzle began to loosen, and though it was agony to have his head moved- even gently, Hubert bit down, steeling himself. He had no doubt that the inquisitors would attempt to put it on again, but some temporary relief went a long way. Finally the stale, damp air met his mouth and jaw and Hubert took some deep heaving breaths, coughing as quietly as he could manage. 

“You’re sick…. I’m going to try get some poultices from the infirm—”

“Leave it.” Hubert spoke, voice a quiet whisper, pronounced slowly, but firmly. He grimaced again, not really in the mood to tell the other his body was in a perpetual motion of illness, and that poultices were wasted on him.

Dimitri thankfully obliged, picking up the bread and the water, close enough for manacled wrists to clumsily lift them. Anger burned in Hubert’s mind, even at the other’s bare assistance. Anger at the injustice, at his own failings, at being caught, at being unable to help or shield Edelgard further.

“I’m surprised at your hospitality. Your reputation has shown otherwise for many years.” Hubert spoke hoarsely, drinking the water with the desperation of a dying man. Dimitri’s expression shifted into something difficult to pin, which only furthered Hubert’s scrutinizing curiosity.

“..You may not immediately feel it, but I think the inquisition put a temperature sedation on you.” Dimitri responded after a long quiet moment, avoiding any response to Hubert’s statement. His visible brow seemed both parts angry and swallowed in guilt. The witch blinked, releasing a stiff breath, noting the faint visible mist in the light of the candle. Cruel, but not unexpected. He did not feel cold, and it certainly saved the church some blankets. Hubert knew that the reality that it often ended in shuddering fevers, hypothermia, and other miserable deaths. Some nihilistic part of his mind did not care, better to curl up and stiffly freeze to death than betray his people.

“Mm, I have no doubt.” Hubert spoke, cynical, defeated grin briefly perching on crooked teeth, earning a discomforted look from the prince- former prince.

Hubert shakily leaned back as much as he could, eyes closing briefly-or perhaps not briefly. In his dizziness, hyper vigilance and pain, the small relief of closed eyes had him linger in the position a moment longer than he intended. Reactively he snapped his eyes open, seeing the prince above him. Slightly delirious thoughts toyed with the notion of taunting him, spitting in the face of the witch hunter Dimitri, the boar.

Before such impulsive stupid actions came to light however, he felt a heavy thud on his shoulders. Aching- now bandaged head twisted to see what had been dropped on him. His fur coat? Hubert stared distrustfully at Dimitri, near indignant. He was surely humiliating him with the gesture. The witch hunter gave a shaky smile, still seemingly staring ahead, giving a small bow before leaving the gob smacked witch once more alone in the cell.

Hubert quietly swore to himself, he felt so powerless without his magic- without anything. It felt like a part of his brain or body had been severed from him. Still, in the lonesome damp and stale draft ridden room, Hubert found himself grateful for the furs, assisting in reminding his body of the realities of the temperature, as well as providing some faint softness among ice cold irons and stiff, straining chains. Answers for tomorrow he decided firmly , delirium and impulsiveness was taking over, he refused to let himself slip into careless madness out of his own distress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Also, I am chronically ill, and for those concerned, have also experienced psychosis on numerous occasions, this stuff is written from my experiences.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Less action this round. More of a filler to make sense of Dimitri's thoughts and experiences and the move.   
> I wish they had this in the game but oh well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for slower update :/ My health- once again has been all over the place.as is the nature of chronic health.

At the back of his mind, he knew they were not real, an illusion, not truly there. But that did not dissipate them. He had seen them. The faces, curling, twisting, snarling around the witch. Whispering words he could not decipher, bleeding, gouged and twisted eyes. Like flickers of a horrific twisting river, flashing, pulsing. He could hear the sounds too. In the past he always checked, looking for other causes, but trying to cover his ears never silenced a sound that did not actually pierce the air.

They were not real, not truly, and yet, one could not dismiss them with this knowledge alone. The vague notion at the back of the mind did not pull the curtain. The sounds, the sights they persisted. That nagging agitation at the back of the mind, unreasonable but unable to be sent away. That they were watching, that danger was ever close. That he was a failure, a failure, a bloody failure. 

He could see the witch’s face- body, still. At least for now, but even that felt threatened by disintegrating shadows, bloody reaching claws and hateful whispers that burned into the skull. Further blurred by the bloody unruly hatred and igniting emotions. He had to go. It would endanger the witch to stay. How ironic that his mind still clung to that notion, apparently stirred enough by the encounters to think mercifully.

Without his cloak he retreated, closing the gated door, tension in his limbs near made him slam it. Adjusting the pauldrons and vambraces on his arms he slinked off into the dimly lit passages of the night. 

The walls themselves seemed to be in a constant state of peel. As if ancient stone was merely plaster, lurching and rearing, with scowling, snarling faces, fangs dragging into shadows and ungodly shapes, distorted beasts. Dimitri cringed, he did not much care how hard his metal covered fingers scratched and scathed against his scalp. It was the barest he could do to distract and add some other stimuli. Hands felt wet, he did not know whether it was from his delusions or whether it was actually bleeding hotly from his deserving skull. 

He managed to find his bed, avoiding as many of his comrades as possible. Slumping into the pillows, blonde limp hair splayed outward. Itching eyepatch was torn off, set wearily at his bedside. There- in full armour, still blood stained from the earlier battle; the former prince fell into an uneasy slumber. Dreams were as restless as his mind was in consciousness. 

Crawling up at the crack of dawn felt half like his corpus was being dragged along by some unknown force of habit, leaving him with a strange out of body sensation that he was floating above, watching but not from behind his skull or eyes. Like a puppet, he ate, drank and filed into the central hall. 

A few odd glances were given at his lack of fur coat- of the ones he noticed. Perhaps Dimitri looked less like a crawling bear, or snarling boar without the accompaniment of furs on his shoulders. Skin still itched at the thought he had so easily given it to the witch, and yet he could not bring himself to regret it. He was unable to truly concentrate as the Inquisition and Church’s leader coalesced. As if for all the years he had obsessed— it meant nothing to him now. There was no fire of hatred, no desire for violence. 

Even as the dessicated corpses of those he knew curled and crept around the fair Rhea and her impressive regalia. He could only stare with owlish eyes, wondering if they too held lies. Deceitful apparitions twisted by obsessive hate. Was he too twisted by this madness? Chasing violence towards a people he had never offered the opportunity to speak or hear out.

Dimitri rubbed repeatedly at his remaining eye, as if trying to dissuade the apparitions, to make them go, even as he knew it did nothing to banish the bastards. Irritation groused his features, fists tightening. He could not bare the arrogant prancing, the gloating, the utter confidence in themselves, not for a moment considering who was caught in their way. Had he been like that? Was he like that? 

Dimitri felt no joy or inspiration from this coalition. It felt like a poison, a deceitful sedation, a curtain or blindfold, held tightly against his eye like itching cloth. As soon as it was over he took his leave, slinking back into the stone halls, moving to leave this forsaken hall of hunters to retreat to the forest. To think, not among religious zealots, but among trees, to think and reconsider. Was their path righteous. Between the incessant hissing of ancestors, he could not shake the hind brain memory of the witch, a dry and bitter man, and yet. He sought no vitriol, nothing unearned, he was caged and chained worse than a slathering demon.

Dimitri sat among the raining forest, allowing the loud rainfall and the incessant sharpening of his sword to drown out some of the war in his mind.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for minor medical trauma and violence/gore.
> 
> :)

It was late in the evening when Dimitri returned. Soaked to the brim like a feral animal, armour and furs dripping, blonde hair clinging to his features. Most stood out of his way as he stalked through the stone halls. Something was amiss. There was a strange air among the people, perhaps it was his rising suspicion at his own comrades. He could not place a finger on it, but it seeped into his skin like a fetid vapor, it was something snide, over confident, and it crawled up his spine like an irritation he could not scratch. He did not bother with finding any food, appetite was not particularly stirred and did not contend with the priority the incessant, nonsensical buzzing in his head took.

Thoughtlessly he found himself returning tot he dungeons, scowling by the chattering circles of witch hunters and inquisitors equally, he had not been informed of any specific happenings. Or perhaps he had. The prince of Delusion found his steps quickening, a bloody hot rage beginning to boil. He did not think of the connotations that for once, his rage was not directed towards a witch, but those that hunted them. His own comrades, his people.

Lance was clicked and maneuvered expertly in nimble metal covered finger tips. He was not yet poised for combat, but was prepared to wield the weapon at a moment’s notice. Two guards were stationed this time. Dimitri gave a cut off nod of acknowledgment, looking to either of them. Though his sense of smell was diminished, he could distinguish a trail of bloody stains that trailed from the witch’s cell. Anger burned within, that white hot vivid rage, that bestial fury so many knew him by. 

He aimed his lance at the church this time.

Looking down into one of the guards, he could feel violent impulses burning and blistering at his skin, itching for his fingers to do something, even to do as little as reach forth and plunge themselves into the man’s eyeballs until he stopped twitching.

“Sir?” 

Dimitri blinked with his remaining eye, not realizing the stiff silence that had filled the air. He gave a tense swallow, teeth grating a moment as his mind fizzled for a reason to make them move. Not with violence, not yet anyway. 

“Your shift is over. I will interrogate the witch without interference.” Dimitri ordered. Voice was low and dangerous, nearly a threat without voicing one. One of the guard’s bearded mouth parted, as if about to offer some advise or comment, but wisely decided otherwise. The two gave a curt bow of the heads before they made their way outward. Some regrettable fortune that they did not doubt his resolve. Breath thinned as he steeled himself. He knew not what to expect, only that if Rhea had her way, it was sure to be bloody.

A phantom scent filled his nostrils, that of burning flesh, twisting and fraying at the exposure of heat, severing and blistering every tendon and sinew that made a man. His single eye stared blankly into the iron nailed door. The back of his mind whirred, trying to stir him to action, back to reality. Away from the memory of burnt corpses and outstretched hands. Metal fingers grasped a nearby torch, jaw tightened and he pushed the door open. 

It was difficult to distinguish what was going, especially when the deep shadows of the room curled with strange hovering corpses, leering snarling faces and gouged eyes bleeding and oozing. Dimitri looked to the floor, grimacing further. 

Blood, pools of it. Some had dried into a dark brown, other drops were fresh, some of the crimson was splattered, indicating just how it had come to be spilled. By the faded light he could spy a figure standing in the farthest reaches, seemingly pouring over an item with enough rapt interest that either he did not care that Dimitri had entered or had not even noticed.

On the floor he spotted the witch.

Long body was weakly curled in a would be defensive position, now fallen apart with fatigue and injury. Dimitri felt something in his gut twist and lurch, like the sudden rock of a ship. His scarce remnant of clothes had been removed, modesty covered only by the sheer amount of blood that stained his taut pale body. Numerous points on the surface of sharp bones and pallor had sutures in untidy lines. So. The date of the dissection had come sooner rather than later, or grimmer still, perhaps this was a test, something small before greater depravity was committed.

Dimitri shook his head with abject disgust.

Before he acted he looked to the shadowy figure lurking in the corners. Eye squinted painfully in the smoke cluttered bare light. Tomas. How he managed to see in this light was.. Questionable to say the least. Dimitri knelt down, not encroaching on the witch’s space. He saw the gifted furcoat in the other corner of the room, tossed aside carelessly by his tormentors. 

“Ah! Dimitri, late for the show but there’s still some kick in the animal!” He chortled with such explicit glee it sent a cold sensation down the former’s princes stomach. Lips formed into a tight line, body involuntarily tensed, ever ready to make that fatal move of violence. In stiff, trembling slowness, he set the torch in a nearby sconce. 

The old monk’s red stained gloved fingers reached down, grasping the witch’s lolling chin and forcing his head up, dull lime eyes stared ahead with a disturbing listlessness, as if Dimitri was not there. He knew that gaze. But the witch was not dead yet and gave a spluttering cough, wheezing at the exertion as his chest stiffly rose and fell, eyes widened with fatigue and agony and yet unable to keep from the itching action. Blood spattered from his mouth. 

Despite being listlessly faint and crushed, even as shaky and without his usual venom as the witch was. Teeth grit together and he shot a look at his torturer, deliberately spitting blood in messy spatters upon the old man, as he let his head roll, giving a weak grimace when the monk dropped his head to smack painfully onto the hard stained stone.

“Kill me.” He snarled viciously with mesmerizing will. The effort sent him into a coughing fit, each pressure from his throat and the leaking blood sounding worse than before. He eventually stilled, blood stained black hair clinging to his face and the floor, lime eyes gazing ahead with that unsettling listless indifference. The only indication he was still alive was his bony chest’s rise and fall, cracking some of the dried blood, revealing the emaciated white flesh beneath. Stiff breathing and scraping wheezing sounded akin to rusted metal on rusted metal.

“Such impudence, a quick death is a mercy, you know this witch.” 

Dimitri watched as the monk, often praised as being gentle, helpful— indifferently went back to fiddling at a table that contained a monumental amount of glass vials, filled with blood, and other gory portions. He did not pause to think. Lance swirled out in practiced precision, and he walked past the tormented witch, over to the red handed monk.

Splash of blood echoed with his foot steps. He did not give time for the old man to turn around . Bladed lance sailed through the air, slashing a thorough line across his back, cutting through skin and into the muscle, earning a cry of pain. Dimitri did not allow a moment of recovery, yanking Tomas by the back of his hood. 

Wrenching him into his armored chest to stun him further. Dimitri grabbed one of the glass vials before smashing it against his skull, deliberately dragging the broken glass across the wrinkled skin before kicking him in the point just above his knees to push his balance, finishing him off with a vicious impale of his lance’s blade, not pausing until he heard and felt the blade scrape into the stone beneath.

Breath heaved with adrenaline and Dimitri gradually recovered himself. Sheathing his lance upon his back, his mind whirred both with his next move and utterly without consideration for the consequences of his actions. A stiff kick was given to the desk, forcing the wood to crumple, the glasses, scalpels and other apparatus coming crashing down with it. Dimitri did not flinch, turning to the witch at last. Weary body could only stare.

Too fatigued and in pain to move one’s face. He knew the feeling well. Shaking himself from his violence, the hunter rushed to retrieve the furred cape that had been discarded, he moved to the witch, pitifully too beaten to even so much as tense this time. His mind felt like a tempest of opposing sides, of incessant whispers, snarling in protest. But he did not pause. 

As gently as trembling arms could manage he moved to wrap the witch’s bare,blood stained body up. Both for his wounds and to protect him from the cold. He had only the barest references for medical habit, but knew enough when lifting the wounded and carrying them. Positioning himself he slowly picked the witch up. The man was near weightless in his hands, even as he adjusted him, so that his long body was as comfortable as he could manage positioned between two armoured limbs. Hubert’s head lolled back with exhaustion, not fighting the hunter as his eyes closed. The only sign of light was the wheezing vibration of his chest against Dimitri’s own.

Without regard for the consequences or the voice’s protests, he made his escape, to take the witch from being dehumanized and experimented upon, to where he hoped a healer would help.


End file.
